St. James hesitated, thinking about the difficulties he would be creating for himself—poised precariously between Lynley’s trust and Havers’ unwavering belief in Stinhurst’s guilt—if he agreed to help her. “It won’t be easy. If Tommy finds out you’ve gone your own way on this, Barbara, there’ll be hell to pay. Insubordination.”
“You’ll be finished in CID,” Lady Helen added quietly. “You’ll be back on the street.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Havers’ face, though pale, was resolute and unflinching. “And who’s going to be finished if there is a cover-up being generated? And if it comes to light through the efforts of some reporter—someone like Jeremy Vinney, by God—sniffing it out on his own? At least this way, if I’m involved in looking into Stinhurst, the inspector’s protected. For all anyone will know, he’s ordered me to do it.”
“You care for Tommy, don’t you?”
Havers looked away at once from Lady Helen’s sudden query. “Most of the time I hate the miserable fop,” she replied. “But if he’s given the sack, it’s not going to be over some berk like Stinhurst.”
St. James smiled at the ferocity of her reply. “I’ll help you,” he said. “For what it’s worth.”
ALTHOUGH the broad walnut sideboard bore a heavy burden of chafing dishes, all exuding a variety of breakfast odours from kippers to eggs, the dining room held only one occupant when Lynley entered. Elizabeth Rintoul’s back was to the door and, apparently indifferent to the sound of his footsteps, she did not turn her head to see who was joining her for the meal. Rather, she toyed a fork against the single sausage on her plate, rolling it back and forth, her eyes making a study of the shiny trail of grease it left, snail-like, in its wake. Lynley joined her, carrying a cup of black coffee and a single slice of cold toast.
She was, he presumed, dressed for the journey back to London with her parents. But like her garments of last evening, her black skirt and grey jumper were overlarge, and although she wore black tights to match them, a small ladder in the ankle promised to lengthen as the day drew on. Over the back of her chair was draped a curious full-length cape, midnight blue in colour, a sort of Sarah Woodruff garment that one might wear for striking dramatic poses on the Cobb. It certainly didn’t seem to fit in with the general scheme of Elizabeth’s personality.
That she wasn’t eager to spend any time with Lynley became evident the moment he sat down across from her. Stoney-faced, she pushed back her chair and began to rise.
“I’ve been given to understand that Joy Sinclair was engaged to your brother Alec at one time,” Lynley observed as if she’d made no movement.
Her eyes didn’t shift from her plate. She settled back down and began cutting the sausage into wafer-thin slices, eating none of them. Her hands were extraordinarily large, even for a woman of her height, and their knuckles were knobby and unattractive. Deep scratches covered them, Lynley noted. Several days old.
“Cats.” Elizabeth’s voice was a shade less than surly. Lynley chose not to reply to the evasive monosyllable, so she went on by saying, “You’re looking at my hands. The scratches are from my cats. They don’t much like it when one breaks up their copulating. But there are some activities that I frankly prefer not go on on my bed.”
It was a double-edged remark, telling in its inadvertent admission. Lynley wondered what an analyst would make of it.
“Did you want Joy to marry your brother?”
“It hardly matters now, does it? Alec’s been dead for years.”
“How did she come to meet him?”
“Joy and I were at school together. She came home with me for half-terms occasionally. Alec was there.”
“And they got on?”
At this, Elizabeth raised her head. Lynley marvelled that a woman’s face could be so completely devoid of expression. It looked like an inexpertly painted mask. “Joy got on with all men, Inspector. It was her special gift. My brother was just one of a long line of her suitors.”
“Yet I’ve the impression she took him far more seriously than the others.”
“Of course. Why not? Alec professed his love often enough to sound like a perfect sap at the same time as he massaged her ego. And how many of the others could offer her the promise of being Countess of Stinhurst once Daddy popped off?” Elizabeth began arranging the pieces of her sausage into a pattern on her plate.
“Did her relationship with your brother put a strain on your friendship?”
A breath of laughter shot through her nose like a gust of angry wind. “Our friendship was defined by Alec, In spector. Once he died, I served no further purpose in Joy Sinclair’s life. I saw her only once after Alec’s memorial service, in fact. Then she disappeared without a second thought.”
“Until this weekend.”
“Yes. Until this weekend. That’s the kind of friends we were.”
“Is it your habit to travel with your parents on a theatrical outing such as this?”
“Not at all. But I’m fond of my aunt. It was a chance to see her. So I came.” An unpleasant smile played round Elizabeth’s mouth, quivered at her nostrils, and disappeared. “Of course, there was also Mummy’s plan for my lusty liaison with Jeremy Vinney. And I couldn’t disappoint her when she was depending so much upon this being the weekend that my rose was finally plucked, if that’s not too much of a metaphor for you.”
Lynley ignored the implication. “Vinney’s known your family long,” he concluded.
“Long? He’s known Daddy forever, on both sides of the footlights. Years ago in the regionals, he fancied himself the next Olivier, but Daddy set him straight. So Vinney moved on to drama criticism, where he’s been ever since, happily getting his jollies by trashing as many productions in a year as he can. But this new play…well, it was something close to my father’s heart. The Agincourt re-opening and all. So I suppose my parents wanted me to be here to ensure good reviews. You know what I mean, just in case Vinney decided to respond to a…shall we say, less than delectable bribe?” She swept a hand rudely down the length of her body. “Myself in exchange for a favourable commentary in The Times. It would meet the needs of both my parents, don’t you see? My mother’s desire to have me properly serviced at last. My father’s desire to take London in triumph.”
She had deliberately returned to her prior theme in spite of Lynley’s offer to turn the tide of conversation. Cooperatively, he took up her thought.
“Is that why you went to Jeremy Vinney’s room the night Joy died?”
Elizabeth’s head shot up at that. “Of course not! Smarmy little man with fingers like hairy sausages.” She stabbed her fork at her plate. “As far as I was concerned, Joy could have the little beast. I think he’s pathetic, rubbing up to theatre people in the hope that hanging about might give him the talent he lacked to make it on the stage years ago. Pathetic!” The sudden burst of passion seemed to disconcert her. As if to negate it, she shifted her eyes and said, “Well, perhaps that’s why Mummy considered him such a suitable candidate for me. Two little blobs of pathos, drifting into the sunset together. God, what a romantic thought.”
“But you went to his room—”
“I was looking for Joy. Because of Aunt Francie and her bloody pearls. Although now I think about it, Mummy and Aunt Francie probably had the entire scene planned out in advance. Joy would rush off to her room, salivating over her new acquisition, leaving me alone with Vinney. No doubt Mummy had already been in his room with flower petals and holy water, and all that was left was the act itself. What a pity. All that effort she went to, only to have it wasted on Joy.”
“You seem fairly certain about what was going on between them in Vinney’s room. I do wonder about that. Did you see Joy? Are you certain she was with him? Are you sure it wasn’t somebody else?”
“I…” Elizabeth stopped. She toyed jerkily with knife and fork. “Of course it was Joy. I heard them, didn’t I?”
“But you didn’t see her?”
“I heard her voice!
”
“Whispering? Murmuring? It was late. She’d have kept it low, wouldn’t she?”
“It was Joy! Who else could it have been? And what else would be going on between them after midnight, Inspector? Poetry readings? Believe me, if Joy went to a man’s room, it was with only one thing on her mind. I know it.”
“She did that with Alec when she visited at your home?”
Elizabeth’s mouth shut, tightened. She went back to her plate.
“Tell me what you did when you left the read-through the other night,” Lynley said.
She moved the sliced sausage into a neat little triangle. Then with the knife, she began cutting the circular pieces in half. Each slice was sparely made and carried out with acute concentration. It was a moment before she replied. “I went to my aunt. She was upset. I wanted to help.”
“You’re fond of her.”
“You seem surprised, Inspector. As if it’s a miracle of sorts that I could be fond of anything. Is that right?” In the face of his refusal to rise to her taunting, she put down knife and fork, pushed her chair fully back, and regarded him straightforwardly. “I took Aunt Francie to her room. I put a compress on her head. We talked.”
“About?”
Elizabeth smiled one last time, but it was, inexplicably, a reaction that seemed to mix both amusement and the knowledge of having bested an opponent. “The Wind in the Willows, if you really must know,” she said. “You’re familiar with the story, aren’t you? The toad. The badger. The rat. And the mole.” She stood, reached for her cape, and swung it round her shoulders. “Now if there’s nothing more, Inspector, I’ve things to see to this morning.”
That said, she left him. Lynley heard her bark of laughter echo in the hall.
IRENE SINCLAIR had herself just heard the news when Robert Gabriel found her in what Francesca Gerrard optimistically labelled her games room. Behind the last door in the lower northeast corridor, almost obscured behind a pile of disused outdoor garments, the room was completely isolated, and once inside, Irene welcomed its smell of mildew and wood rot and the pervasive congestion of dust and grime. Obviously, the renovation of the house had not reached this far corner yet. Irene found herself glad of it.
An old billiard table sat in the centre of the room, its baize covering loosely rippled, the netting under most of the pockets either torn or missing altogether. There were cue sticks on a rack on the wall, and Irene fingered these absently as she made her way to the window. No curtains covered it, a condition that contributed to the numbing want of heat. Since she wore no coat, she held her body tightly and rubbed her hands along her arms, pressing hard against the wool sleeves of her dress, feeling the answering friction like a kind of pain.
From the window there was little to see, just a grove of winter-bare alders beyond which the slate top of a boathouse seemed to be sprouting from a hillock like a triangular excrescence. It was an optical illusion, fabricated from the angle of the window and the height of the hill. Irene considered this idea, brooding over the continuing place that illusions seemed to be making in her life.
“God in heaven, Renie. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. What are you doing in here?” Robert Gabriel crossed the room to her. He had come in noiselessly, managing to shut the warped door without a sound. He was carrying his overcoat and said in explanation of it, “I was just about to go outside and start a search.” He dropped the coat on her shoulders.
It was a meaningless enough gesture, yet Irene still felt a distinct aversion to his touch. He was so near that she could smell the cologne he wore and the last vestige of coffee fighting with toothpaste upon his breath. It made her feel ill.
If Gabriel noticed, he gave no sign. “They’re letting us leave. Have they made an arrest? Do you know?”
She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. “No. No arrest. Not yet.”
“Of course, we’re to be available for the inquest. God, what a dashed inconvenience it is to have to run back and forth from London. But at least it’s better than having to stay in this ice pit. The hot water’s entirely gone, you know. And little hope of having repairs done on that old boiler for at least three days. That’s taking roughing it to the limit, isn’t it?”
“I heard you,” she said. Her voice was a whisper, small and despairing. She felt him looking at her.
“Heard?”
“I heard you, Robert. I heard you with her the other night.”
“Irene, what are you—”
“Oh, you needn’t worry that I’ve told the police. I wouldn’t do that, would I? But that’s why you’ve come looking for me, I dare say. To make sure my pride ensures my silence.”
“No! I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I’m here because I want to take you back to London. I don’t want you to be going off on your own. There’s no telling—”
“Here’s the most amusing part,” Irene interrupted acidly. “I’d actually come looking for you. God help me, Robert, I think I was ready to have you back. I’d even—” To her shame, her voice broke and she moved away from him as if by that she would regain her self-control. “I’d even brought you a picture of our James. Did you know he was Mercutio at school this year? I had two photographs made, one of James and one of you in a double frame. Remember that photo of you as Mercutio all those years ago? Of course, you don’t look very much alike because James has my colouring, but all the same I thought you’d want to have the pictures. Mostly because of James. No, I’m lying to myself. And I swore last night that I’d stop it. I wanted to bring you the pictures because I hated you and I loved you and just for a moment the other night when you and I were together in the library, I thought there was a chance….”
“Renie, for the love of God—”
“No! I heard you! It was Hampstead all over again! Exactly! And they say that life doesn’t repeat itself, don’t they? What a filthy laugh! All I needed to do was open the door to find you a second time having my sister. Just as I did last year, with the only difference being that I was alone this time. At least our children would have been spared a second go at the sight of their father sweating and panting and moaning over their lovely aunt Joy.”
“It isn’t—”
“What I think?” Irene felt her face quiver with encroaching tears. Their presence angered her—that he should still be able to reduce her to this. “I don’t want to hear it, Robert. No more clever lies. No more, ‘It only happened once.’ No more anything.”
He grabbed her arm. “Do you think I killed your sister?” His face looked ill, perhaps from lack of sleep, perhaps from guilt.
She laughed hoarsely, shaking him off. “Killed her? No, that’s not at all your style. Dead, Joy was absolutely no good to you, was she? After all, you aren’t the least bit interested in screwing a corpse.”
“That didn’t happen!”
“Then what did I hear?”
“I don’t know what you heard! I don’t know who you heard! Anyone could have been with her.”
“In your room?” she demanded.
His eyes widened in panic. “In my…Renie, good God, it’s not what you think!”
She flung his coat off her shoulders. Dust leaped from the floor when it dropped. “It’s worse than knowing you’ve always been a filthy liar, Robert. Because now I realise that I’ve become one. God help me. I used to think that if Joy died I’d be free of the pain. Now I believe I’ll only be free of it when you’re dead as well.”
“How can you say that? Is that what you really want?”
She smiled bitterly. “With all my heart. God, God! With all my heart!”
He stepped away from her, away from the coat on the floor between them. His face was ashen. “So be it, love,” he whispered.
LYNLEY FOUND Jeremy Vinney outside on the drive, stowing his suitcase into the boot of a hired Morris. Vinney was muffled against the cold in coat, gloves, and scarf; his breath steamed the air. His high domed forehead gleamed pink where the sun struck it and he looked,
surprisingly, as if he were perspiring. He was also, Lynley noted, the first to leave. A decidedly strange reaction in a newspaperman. Lynley crossed the drive to him, his footsteps grating against the gravel and ice. Vinney looked up.
“Making an early start of it,” Lynley remarked.
The journalist nodded towards the house where dark early morning shadows were painted like ink along the stone walls. “Not really a spot for lingering, is it?” He slammed the boot lid home and checked to see that it was securely locked. Fumbling a bit with his keys, he dropped them and cleared his throat raspily as he bent to retrieve them in their worn leather case. When he finally looked at Lynley, it was to reveal a face upon which grief played subtly, the way it often does when an initial shock has been lived through and the immensity of a loss begins to be measured against the endlessness of time.
“Somehow,” Lynley said, “I should think a journalist would be the last to leave.”
At this, Vinney gave an abrupt, little laugh. It seemed self-directed, punitive, and unkind. “Hot after a story at the scene of the crime? Looking for a good ten inches of space on page one? Not to mention a byline and a knighthood for having solved the crime single-handedly? Is that how you see it, Inspector?”
Lynley answered the question by asking one. “Why were you actually here this weekend, Mr. Vinney? Every other presence can be accounted for in one way or another. But you remain a bit of a mystery. Can you shed some light on it for me?”
“Didn’t you get a good enough picture from our attractive Elizabeth last evening? I was wild to get Joy in bed. Or better yet, I was picking her brains for material to bolster my career. Choose either one.”
“Frankly, I’d prefer the reality.”
Vinney swallowed. He seemed discomfited, as if he expected something other than equanimity from the police. Bellicose insistence upon the truth, perhaps, or a finger stabbed provocatively into his chest. “She was my friend, Inspector. Probably my best friend. Sometimes I think my only friend. And now she’s gone.” His eyes looked burnt out as he turned them towards the untroubled surface of the loch in the distance. “But people don’t understand that kind of friendship between a man and a woman, do they? They want to make something of it. They want to cheapen it up.”
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